Static
by illepidam
Summary: A collection of drabbles of Miles' thoughts during and directly after his investigation at Mount Massive. No shipping.
1. Fly in the Web

_**Note:** This "story" is a collection of short drabbles of Miles' thoughts and reception of while he's at Mount Massive. Some will contain when he's still doing his investigation, and some will be directly after the end of the game. Some "chapters" will be mildly rated, while others will edge toward more explicit storytelling. Use common sense and understand your own triggers and limits before reading. And so, enjoy._

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><p><strong>Fly in a Web<strong>

Was he truly that scared, that the shrieking of horror in the back of his head had fallen silent out of hoarseness? Or was he becoming desensitized to the morbid painting of his surroundings? The splattering of blood; the corpses - or pieces of them - on the ground and hanging from the ceiling; the mutilations of every patient he came across… He couldn't tell.

What sort of place was this? What sort of sick fuck would condone - _endorse _this sort of thing? If he didn't want to puke or hide under a bed until the next century turned, he did want to tear this whole place down. He wanted to strip it bare and show the world how ugly it was. It needed to stop. This craziness, the nausea he felt, the fear that coated his skin like a thick layer of wool, the disgust and pity that set in the pit of his stomach… it had to go away. The only way to do that was to keep going.

_ —__But God, he really didn't want to._

The more he explored, the more he dug into the core of this operation, the more horrific things he saw. The more confusing, supernatural things he saw. Was this what witnessing meant? Was this what that crazy priest wanted out of him? Miles didn't even know if the man was an ally or actually leading him to his doom.

_ —__He was doomed already._

Teeth gritting, he just didn't know what exactly he was looking for. What he was supposed to do - except show the world all the gory evidence he found within this "charity's" walls. He could easily do that with just a few minutes of video of the people beating each other and fucking corpses, of the murdered staff, but there was something else he was apparently missing. Something vital.

He couldn't even find a proper exit in this damn place! It was like the asylum was keeping him in, forcing him to stay until he reached the bottom of this terrifying mystery. Really, all he could do was move forward. And hope whatever awaited him at the end of the road didn't finally kill him.

_ —__Good luck with that, son._


	2. Battered, Not Broken

**Battered, Not Broken**

He stared at the flickering images that played on the screen. Ink blots of insects and surgical wounds. If he remembered correctly, bugs were signs of a decent mental health. Surgical wounds—? What did those mean?

Gaze dropping, he contemplated the stain of red on his clothes. His bloodied hand pressed at his abdomen, bruised black from all the falls he had taken. His entire body had been put through the wringer — concussion, fractures, amputations without anesthesia, some _thing_ crowding his head.

For a moment, he wondered if this was what pregnant women felt like — with something settled inside them.

_—__No, their experience was nothing like this._

It felt like some worm was wriggling under his skin. It traced over his muscles and bones, prodding at the edges of his mind. If he had to make an analogy, he was better off referencing Alien.

Would it kill him one day? Would he end up like Billy: a vegetable, aged beyond his years, shoved full of tubes? Would Murkoff, or whoever held hands with them, come for him and want to experiment on him like the rest of this place? A shudder ran along his spine.

_ —__No_.

He had let that guy — only now he realized he was the one who sent him that email — go. That was the right decision. It was okay to let him escape. Murkoff would get theirs. But the rest the people here? It wouldn't be right to let them leave. He couldn't do it. Not when they were all victims like him, mutilated and trashed like last week's rotten leftovers.

_ —__Killing them would be an act of kindness._


	3. Psalm of Truth

**Psalm of Truth**

Through a veil of black, like sheer fabric laid over his eyes, Miles looked down at his hands. Eight fingers. Two stumps. A swirl of dark matter formed to fill the space where those two remaining fingers were meant to be, but it could not replace what had been lost. Or was it would not?

He wasn't quite sure. The static was still so loud in his head, like the crackle of a television out of service. There was a main purpose there, a vague idea of what was to happen next, but he couldn't quite put the pieces together yet. So he stared at his hands.

Turning his left hand over, he traced with his eyes the lines that marked his palm, the creases of his fingers, the fact…

The fact that it was his ring finger that was chopped off. If he wanted to marry, he wouldn't be able to put it on his ring finger. It would have to go on a different one, or maybe he could wear it on the right hand.

And speaking of his right hand? His missing index finger left much to be desired. He wrote with his right hand. He wasn't the least bit ambidextrous. He tried to imagine signing documents or filling out forms with his left hand. A three year old could probably do better. Thank God for computers and typing.

_ —__Wait… no, there was no thanking him._

That bastard didn't do jack shit when the hour was dire. He didn't stop Murkoff from making those patients into walking disasters. He didn't stop Billy from being some puppet to an old man's extremist ideals. He didn't stop that crazy fucking doctor from making trophies out of his fingers.

God didn't do anything. Except watch shit play out like a guy with a bag of popcorn in the back of the theater. And for what? Now Miles was… a _host?_ What did that even mean? He didn't know. But he was angry.

Maybe God didn't want to do anything, or couldn't, or whatever, but _he_ could. **And he would**. Murkoff had to be shut down. All of it. Every last one of those bastards and their brain probing buddies had to be wiped from the earth. The people had to know just what sort of sick and twisted lies those people had spun. They deserved the truth.

He could give them the truth he had found. Father Martin said something about a gospel? This was a testament.

**According to the Word of Miles, Passage 1: The downfall of a corrupted company. **

_ —__Amen._


End file.
